


Hopelessly, I'll Love You Endlessly

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, M/M, With a small side of humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 09:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: He saw the smoke from blocks away, billowing into the sky and mingling with the storm clouds.  The Bentley screeched to a halt just as the fire trucks pulled in.  Orange flames licked the walls of the bookshop, finding more than their share of kindling in all of the ancient paper.----Five times Crowley saved Aziraphale and one time he was too late.





	Hopelessly, I'll Love You Endlessly

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back again with my first ever 5 and 1 fic! 
> 
> I left some information on the first three historic events that I used in the end notes.
> 
> Lord help me I actually logged onto my university account to use J-Stor through the university library because I've lost control of my life :D
> 
> Fic title and inspiration from Endlessly by Muse
> 
> If you leave this fic in the Bentley too long that turns into Who Wants To Live Forever by Queen

**_Lindisfarne, Northumbria.  8 June 793 AD_ **

Crowley didn’t like boats.  Being on water made him feel a bit queasy if he were honest.  But here he was, on a Viking longboat, about to hit shore on a small island in Northumbria.

It hadn’t taken much temptation for Lodbrok to decide to mount the attack.  Amazing what some gold and silver can do to sway humans one way or the other.

Crowley wasn’t  _necessarily_ one for violence, but he had a job to do, so they’d raid the island, kill a few villagers, call it a day.  Not that he was going to kill anyone; one of his flaws as a demon.  He’d never quite developed a taste for it.

Humans were so bloody good at killing each other for no good reason that he never had to anyway.

He could see the few and sparse buildings from here; not the magnificence you’d usually see from the Christians, but they were sure to contain valuables anyway.  The longboats landed and the Norse warriors rushed the shore, taking out anything or anyone in their way, ruthlessly as possible.

Crowley was secretly glad he hadn’t called on Aziraphale this time.  They had an arrangement of sorts.  Sometimes, if the tasks weren’t too massive, they’d do each other’s work.  Crowley had performed his share of blessings and Aziraphale had performed a few temptations, but he didn’t think the angel could handle this.

And above anything else (against his better judgment), he wanted Aziraphale to stay safe, stay out of things like this.  _For convenience sake,_ he often told himself.  

He was a demon.  He often lied, even to himself.

It was at this moment, as the last of the longboats pulled in and the last of the warriors disembarked, he felt it.  An unmistakable wave of angelic love; the kind that’s for all things great and small.  It was like a low-frequency beacon that Crowley often used to find Aziraphale in the first place.

Of course the bloody idiot was here.

Crowley groaned and started off for the monastery.  So much for a relaxing day at the beach.

He made his way through the carnage to the opposite side of the building, weaving in and out of scenes he hoped he’d forget over the coming centuries.  There was the angel, pinned to the back door of the main chapel, trying desperately to fight off five of Ragnar’s soldiers on his own with a longsword.  He could feel a terrified energy radiating from behind the door.

Crowley had almost forgotten that Aziraphale knew how to use a sword; he often thought he only knew how to give one away1.

With a snap of his fingers, all five of the soldiers froze in place.

“Angel, you really shouldn’t be here.” Crowley walked through the soldiers, pushing each one’s shoulder to turn them the other direction, which led to them promptly forgetting what they were doing behind the monastery in the first place and running back to the main part of the fight.

“Crowley?  Why are you hanging around the vikings,” the angel said indignantly, “Am I to suppose this is your doing?”

“What, saving you from getting skewered?” Crowley kicked mindlessly at a spear left on the ground, “Trying to get roasted on a spit or something?”

“No, not that! This whole bloody thing!” Aziraphale’s face got red as he waved his arms at the general area around him, “This is a _monastery_ , they haven’t done anything to anyone!”

“All I did was say there might be gold across the water, I didn’t tell them where to go.  Definitely didn’t tell them to do all of this.” Crowley shuddered just a bit from the screaming “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Crowley always noticed that the angel was quite cute when he was angry; he wished he didn’t.

“I was _supposed_ to be performing a blessing on the church. They’ve fallen into some hard times. But I’m too late, I’m afraid.” The angel awkwardly laid the longsword on the ground, like he wasn’t quite sure where to put it.

Sometimes Crowley thought it was a cruel joke that the head offices always seemed to send them to the same place.  Aziraphale never should have been here.

“I will say I’m glad you showed up,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands together and starting to pace, “Not sure how long I could have held them off, I’m quite out of practice.”

“You never used your sword when you were galivanting about pretending to be a knight?” The demon raised an eyebrow.  He already knew the answer; the angel was quite fond of having others do his work for him.

“Well…” the angel stammered, “Not exactly…no, it was more of a figurehead kind of thing.  I left most of the hard work to Lancelot and Galahad.”  A different red tinged the angel’s face.  Crowley pretended not to notice.

Aziraphale smiled at him and Crowley swore there was a faint glow surrounding the angel’s face.  He didn’t think about it2.

“Still, at any rate, thank you.” Aziraphale said brightly.

“Don’t expect a repeat,” Crowley snapped, a little harsher than intended, “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.  Why didn’t you just miracle yourself out anyway?”

“What do you expect me to do there’s _children_ in here,” the angel said, pointing to the door, still radiating fear and terror, “Am I just supposed to leave them to your…your… _friends_ out there?”

“ _Those_ people,” Crowley hissed, pointing behind him, “Are not my friends, you should know me better than that by now.” 

Aziraphale just scoffed at him.  “More likely to be friends with your side than mine, I’d say.”

“Either way, get the damn kids out of here,” Crowley didn’t like killing people, especially not kids, “I sent the soldiers off, they won’t even pay attention this way, not for a few minutes at least.  Just get them out of here.”

Aziraphale nodded at the demon as he turned to walk away. Crowley heard the door open and heard the sound of feet running away.  He turned back just long enough to see Aziraphale turn back and smile at him.

Crowley felt something flutter; he didn’t like it.

 

\----

**_Towton, England.  29 March 1461 AD_ **

The snow was coming down so hard Crowley could barely see. And it was so…fucking…cold.

Not the best environment for a snake, cold-blooded and all that.

Humans just got more and more creative in their excuses for killing each other.  Over what? Family lineage?  What a laugh that was.

Crowley didn’t put much stock in things like that. After all, look at the family _he_ came from.

Kind of ironic, red and white roses.  Considering everything right now was red and white; freshly spilled blood mixing with new-fallen snow.

He’d picked his side, the side his superiors _told_ him to pick.  There was no sidelining on this one, he had to be in the middle of it.  And if his aim was just _awful_ with his arrows, well that was the snowstorm’s fault.  And Queen Margaret’s.  This battle was doomed from the start.

Crowley was at least glad everyone seemed to have no idea what the fuck was going on.  Once the archers abandoned their posts to fist-fight instead, he was able to hang back, firing arrows at nothing in particular, watching the fray.  Marveling at the killing ingenuity of the Almighty’s little pets.

At least he had been, until he saw a familiar poof of blonde hair; felt a familiar ethereal glow.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Angel,” he said to no one in particular.

There was Aziraphale, in the middle of everything, and of course fighting alongside the Yorks.  Life was beginning to be funny that way.

“I’m not interfering this time,” he continued to nobody, “I told you it was a _one-time thing._  Get yourself discorporated see if I care.”

He leaned his bow against the wall, turning and leaning against it himself.  Everyone was fairly distracted now pummeling each other with fists and feet and whatever else they could find that was worth pummeling with.

“Because I don’t,” he shouted, “Not a bit, nice boon for the underworld have your sorry ethereal ass gone!”

He was _not_ gonna turn around, no sir.  If the daft angel got discorporated it was his own fault for being in the middle of things.  He wasn’t even sure _why the_  angel would be in the middle of this bloody battle, but he assumed it had something to do with orders.  And he was _not going to turn around._

“Be a lovely little memo to send back downstairs! Dear Lord Beelzebub,” he put on his best haughty voice, “I’m pleased to report that joining the Lancasters was the best course of action, just watched a Principality bleed out on the snow.”

He didn’t care.  He shouldn’t care.  He’d spent the last few millennia convincing himself he didn’t care about the angel that gave his sword away to humans because he was _nice_. 

Crowley huffed and turned around, facing the battlefield once more, just in time to demonically miracle away a few arrows that were headed straight for (what, on a human anyway, would be) Aziraphale’s heart.

Crowley stayed at the outskirts of the battle for the remainder of it, occasionally checking in on the angel, who was holding his own for most of it.  Must've been practicing after the debacle in Lindisfarne.  Occasionally, Crowley waved away an errant arrow or sword or spear.  The angel didn’t seem to notice he was there, and Crowley had no intention of telling him. 

This was all for convenience.  None of this was because he cared.

This was, of course, a lie.  A lie he’d been trying and failing to come to terms with for centuries now.  A lie that was starting to form the shape of a feeling he hadn’t known since before his wings were black as the night sky.

A feeling he would trample under his foot until it left him alone.

 

\----

**_Prague, Kingdom of Bohemia.  23 May 1618 AD_**

Crowley’s main job as a demon was to foment dissent and discord, which had made the last couple of centuries fairly interesting.

Humans were truly remarkable creatures, and they could form their own dissent and discord just fine.

When they formed their dissent and discord in the church?  Now _that_ was fun.  He was sure upstairs was having a time of it3.

Crowley liked to get out of Britain every once in a while; it got stuffy there if you stayed too long and it was always damp.  No, he preferred to roam, see the sights, live the life. 

And, if by chance, it kept his encounters with certain celestial beings that plagued his waking thoughts to a minimum, well, that was just a bonus. 

People were certainly living it up around here. Humans were much better than they gave themselves credit for at divining  _when_ exactly some form of Earth-shattering change was coming.  He’d heard the rumors from other demons, from politicians, from lords and the like. 

The Holy Roman Empire was taking a hardline approach to things, and the people here preferred a much more _laissez-faire_ approach to their religion.  There was a delegation from the Catholic church here to try to talk some sense into the ruling class; which was a joke in and of itself.  Churches and rulers didn’t talk sense into each other, just mucked around and messed with it all.

Despite his better judgment, he’d decided to pop by the Chancellory and take a peek.  And if something happened that might be considered a win for the higher-ups downstairs, well, who’d notice if he took credit for it, right?

And so, he lurked, as demons do, along the alley and then among the people on the street.  Expecting shouting, some swords maybe, nothing too crazy.  Then again, this _was_ Count von Thurn.  He was a bit of political maelstrom, full of opinions.

Crowley liked Count von Thurn.  Always good for a laugh.  Even now he was shouting towards the gathered crowd.

“Were we to keep these men alive, then we would lose the Letter of Majesty and our religion,” the Count shouted to thunderous applause, “There can be no justice to be gained from or by them!”

Things were starting to get good.  Thurn had a flare for dramatics, and this surely would be no different.  That was something Crowley could respect.

At least until he felt that familiar wave.  Used to be a low homing signal, now he likened it more to a magnetic pull.

“Please, my good sir,” stammered an all-too-familiar voice full of indignance, “Do be reasonable!”

Before Crowley could connect the voice to Aziraphale, two men and one very confused angel were flung out of the third story window.

A quick snap of the fingers and a very convenient dung heap that surely had been there the entire time was suddenly there, and the three individuals fell directly into it.

The crowd cheered and whooped; Crowley could see the Count himself laughing from his vantage point.  The regents stood quickly and made their way off, before anyone could change their mind4.  Aziraphale, however, couldn’t seem to get his bearings. 

Crowley made his way through the people, to where the angel was making a move to get up, only to see him slip and fall right back down into the dung again.

“Oi, Angel,” he called out, trying desperately not to laugh at the prim and proper angel absolutely covered in cow shit, “Got some, uh, mud on your face there, looking more than a bit disgraceful.”

He reached out a hand to help Aziraphale to his feet, grimacing and wiping it on his pants leg afterwards.  Better than a flat discorporated angel on the street but disgusting all the same.

“Well, I suppose it’s better than the alternative,” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at the smell, “What in Heaven’s name are you doing here anyway?”

“Just hanging around,” the demon said casually, “Causing some odd mischief here and there, not hard during political upheaval.” This was going to make a fun story for head office, provided he left out the angel-rescuing bit. 

 “I take it you’re palling around with the regentss now?” Crowley asked, a hiss escaping him as he continued stifling his laughter.  He’d never seen the angel look so defeated before.

“Not by choice, if you must know,” Aziraphale said, “I was much happier back in London, but orders are orders.  They wanted me to try and fix this, but it’s so far beyond me.” The crowd was still milling about, chanting now, words that Crowley couldn’t be bothered to focus on.  No one was paying any attention to the two of them.

“Do you think this will…I don’t know…blow over?” Aziraphale seemed nervous.  Knowing him as well as Crowley did, he was sure the angel _really_ thought he could stave off the inevitable just by being nice.

Aziraphale was clever, but he was just so stupid sometimes.

“Not sure, Angel,” Crowley said, trying to sound sympathetic.   Aziraphale shot him a pleading look and Crowley, rolling his eyes, snapped his fingers and all of the muck was gone from the angel's clothes.

“Ah, much better, thank you,” Aziraphale said with a smile.  His eyes were doing that thing that made Crowley’s stomach flip.  Sparkling.  Ethereal bunch of nonsense.

“Come on, let’s get a drink, look like you could use one.”

“Ah, yes, suppose I could,” the angel thought for a minute.  “Maybe some roast duck, I hear there are some _lovely_ spots around Prague for a good roast duck. 

As always, Aziraphale was practically giddy at the possibility of a good meal.  This was something Crowley didn’t quite ‘get’; food wasn’t necessary, and he had never seen the appeal.  But if it made the angel happy, it made him happy.

“I do still owe you,” Aziraphale said brightly, “For Hamlet.”

“Don’t even talk to me about Hamlet,” Crowley said, “I still can’t stand Shakespeare’s sad ones.”

Crowley wasn’t sure why he had helped Shakespeare at all; something about the face Aziraphale had made that day.  Soft and pleading.  Crowley felt he was losing his edge.

He had been coming to this realization for a while. It was a slow realization fifteen centuries in the making, but one he’d come to all the same.

It didn’t matter how far he went, where he was, he always ended up pulled back to Aziraphale, and it had nothing to do with their respective offices.  Every time they broke apart, they came back together sooner than before; circling around and around to…well…Crowley wasn’t sure what _exactly_ they were circling to.  He was, however, realizing more and more that maybe, just maybe, one small piece of him before the fall was left.  Demons weren’t supposed to feel love.  But here he was, completely hopeless with it.

But he wasn’t ready to call it that yet.  Even after so many centuries of pulling the angel out of nonsense predicaments.  He wasn’t sure why he kept doing it, he’d told him it was a one-time thing.  Discorporation, though inconvenient, wasn’t a death sentence for either of them.  Just loads of paperwork and a new body afterwards.  Crowley wasn’t sure what else would change after one was discorporated; if they’d lose memories or change personalities or something similar.

He’d come to terms with not wanting the angel to change; he liked him just the way he was.

Not that he’d ever tell anyone that.

 

\-----

**_Paris, France.  1793 AD_**

One should not  _seethe_ over crepes.  Well, a demon probably should.

Any other time, Crowley was sure he _would_ be seething.  No convenient excuses this time. No right-place-at-the-right-time to cover for him.

No, this time his only excuse was that he _did_ care. Satan help him if Hastur or Beelzebub ever found out he’d been worried about a damned angel.

All this business with the revolution was ripe for credit to be taken, and he’d received a commendation for it.  Without even lifting a finger5.  Humans were better at being demons than actual demons were.

He’d had his fill of violence for the month and had been leaving the crowds behind when he felt it, unmistakable as always. 

The magnetic pull of the angel, coming from the goddamn Bastille.  He paused, waiting to feel the miracle that would be Aziraphale escaping, but he didn’t. Crowley could see him sitting there in chains, doing absolutely nothing about his predicament.

 _Daft angel,_ he thought.  One snap he could be back in London at that bookshop he’d been going on about opening, so why didn’t he?

Crowley felt an overwhelming urge to intervene, but that would be a very bad idea.

He’d saved the angel so many times before, but this would be different.  If he ‘broke’ into the Bastille to get Aziraphale out, it would be deliberate, and it would be possible that the Powers That Be would take notice.  That would make his life difficult; whatever his commendations of the time might be.

But he also, and he detested this word, _cared_ about Aziraphale.  He wasn’t partial to seeing his only friend short one head, wasn’t sure he could handle it. 

He had been at a crossroads, and the irony was not lost on him.  The choice, however, was the easiest he'd ever made.

Thus, he had ended up here, eating crepes with ‘the enemy’, who hadn’t actually been the enemy for a very long time.  How someone could be _so bloody stupid_ was beyond the demon’s grasp.  How that stupidity could be so endearing was even further from it.

He was trying not to notice the face Aziraphale made when he was eating ‘good food’.  Fully immersed in enjoying the experience of true Parisian crepes.  When Aziraphale was happy he emitted almost a golden glow. Crowley didn’t like admitting it was entrancing.

Angels were beings made of love, and the glow was love radiating from him.  All angels did that when they were extraordinarily happy, but he rather liked Aziraphale’s aura the best.  It brought to mind sunflowers, vanilla, and old books.  Crowley likened it to opium; for him at least.  Made him feel warm and languid, like he could just curl up and nap wherever the angel was.

He was glad for his darkened glasses, as he usually was. But he was sure his eyes would give something away if Aziraphale were to look in his direction for any amount of time. He was also grateful Aziraphale was absorbed in his crepes.

“I know you said not to, but I do need to say thank you,” the angel said, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin, “Quite lucky you were around, would have been most inconvenient.”

“You just need to stop throwing miracles around like this lot is throwing heads,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes, knowing the angel couldn’t see it, “Next time you’re on your own.”

“Well at any rate, I do appreciate having you around,” Aziraphale smiled at him, softer than his usual grin, and Crowley felt his face grow hot.

“Don’t expect it again, Angel,” he said, pushing back and balancing on one chair leg.  Yes, very cool, super cool.

“Yes, I know,” the angel seemed…what, exactly?  Embarrassed?  Sad?  Crowley wasn’t sure, emotions were never quite his strong suit.  He had a hard enough time deciphering his own, much less puzzles that others presented to him whether he wanted them or not.

“A toast then, Angel?” Crowley lifted his wine glass, trying to shake the angel out of his…whatever it was.

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale said, perking up instantly, “to what should we toast?”

“How about human ingenuity,” Crowley said with a sideways grin.  Aziraphale bristled, and the demon knew he’d accomplished his goal of getting on the angel's nerves.  They clinked the glasses together anyway, and Crowley was happy just to be here.  Not that he’d ever tell anyone that.

He’d kept this angel safe for this long, he supposed he could keep watching out for him.  Like a guardian demon.

Crowley had always loved a bit of irony.

 

\-----

**_London, England.  1941 AD_**

Their argument over holy water in 1862 stung more than Crowley had wanted to admit.  After everything they’d been through, weren’t they friends?  Didn’t Aziraphale trust him?

Fraternizing.  As if that’s everything they were to each other.  But as far as Crowley knew, that’s all he was to Aziraphale.  Someone who was useful at times, an acquaintance at best.

 _The enemy_ had been the implication.

Bugger all that; he’d decided to sleep for a few decades. When he woke up in 1930, he found out he’d missed the whole party.  World War I had come and gone; everything was very tense.  Perfect for a bit of demonic mischief.  He’d gone the better part of 70 years without sending a single memo downstairs, so he supposed he needed to cause some kind of a ruckus.  Or at least be near some.

In 1933 he bought a car.  A Bentley, brand new off the lot.  Cars gave way to so many new ways to terrorize people.  Then the Germans went off the rails.

He started fucking with the Nazis, low grade stuff, but just enough to make him notorious with them.  Messing with their new technology to make it backfire, intercepting transmissions and changing them so units got lost going to wherever they were supposed to be killing people at.  Fun way to spend a year.  Hell might’ve liked the Nazis, but he could do without them.

Crowley was driving through what was left of London.  Weeks of bombings had left large parts of the city in ruins, but he had to give these humans credit for the indominable spirit. He wondered where Churchill got his vigor from.

He braked hard when he felt a spike in angelic energy. He reached out, using that familiar magnetic pull that connected him to Aziraphale, and found him in a church with Nazis, gun pointed in his face.

 _Oh for fuck’s sake,_ Crowley thought to himself as he turned and headed in that direction.  No reservations, no hesitation.  Aziraphale was in trouble and that’s all it took.  They hadn’t spoken since that day in St. James Park, but that didn’t matter to Crowley right now.

He felt the angel’s spirt lift with the arrival of the British spy, but as he rounded the corner, he felt the angel’s spirit fall once again when the double-cross was revealed.  Prophecy books, really?  _That’s_ what the angel was worrying about now.

The Bentley screeched to a halt and he rushed towards the church.  Always one for a dramatic flourish, he kicked open the door of the one place he never intended to go.  He hesitated only for a moment before stepping inside.

The pain was ridiculous, but not unbearable.  Like fire licking at the bottom of his feet. Hopping from foot to foot quickly seemed to make it manageable.  Manageable enough anyway.

“Consecrated ground, _really_ , Angel?” he complained to no one in particular, “Couldn’t at least pick a nice field or something?”

As he hotfooted through the church, taking note of Aziraphale’s astonished face, he came up with his plan.

The Nazis had been just as dumb as he’d thought they would be, and he’d had to show his hand.  As the air raid sirens started, he looked at Aziraphale.  Aziraphale had looked back at him, face unreadable.  They’d both survive this just fine, he trusted in that.

In a last-minute bout of caring, Crowley spared a miracle for those precious books Aziraphale was so worried about minutes ago.  He didn’t really think he needed to, but sometimes the angel could be forgetful.

Those were his precious prophecy books, the loss of those would be devastating to Aziraphale.

“That was very kind of you,” Aziraphale said tersely, shaking the ash from his hat.

“Shut up,” he hissed back on instinct.  He hadn’t even really _wanted_ to see the angel at all after their last conversation, but he never could help himself when it came to Aziraphale.

He’d given up that fight a long time ago, over crepes and a guillotine.

“Well, it was,” Aziraphale fumbled with his hands nervously, “No paperwork, for a start.”

The angel looked around, suddenly realizing that something was missing.  Just as forgetful as always.

“The books!  I forgot all the books,” the angel said, looking like he was on the verge of a breakdown.  Crowley seized of the few chances his long life had given him to be somewhere on the outskirts of _smooth_ 6.

“They’ll have been blown to…” the angel was interrupted by Crowley handing him a nice leather bag; Mr. Harmony’s bag.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley said with a smirk, enjoying the look of surprise on the angel’s face.  His long nap must’ve made him soft; but then, he’d been soft for a while.

“Lift home?” Crowley asked, not bothering to look back at Aziraphale as he strolled towards the gleaming black car.  Crowley _really_ liked cars; best thing the humans had come up with. 

When he got to the driver’s side Aziraphale still hadn’t answered him.

“Oi, Angel,” he called out, “I don’t have all day here, do you want a lift home or not?”

Aziraphale was standing in the same place he had been, holding the leather bag of books, and there could be no mistaking what Crowley was seeing.

The golden aura was there; Aziraphale was ridiculously happy, in a way he’d only seen the angel be over the best food or an extremely rare antique book.  Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat as Aziraphale turned and smiled at him, a smile that could light up even the darkest corners of the demon’s soul.

It felt like the glow was focused on him directly.  He felt like a cat lying in a sunbeam strewn across the floor.  It was intoxicating and overwhelming at the same time.

Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the demon's heart yet.

 

\-----

**_London, England.  The Last Day of the World.  2018 AD_**

Crowley hadn’t bothered to check the message; he’d heard enough before he’d had to dispatch with Hastur.  Aziraphale had found the Antichrist, and they might be able to stop Armageddon after all.

Aziraphale had figured it out.  He might not have wanted to run away to Alpha Centauri, but the bastard angel had figured it out, and now they could do something about it.

With Hastur securely trapped inside his answering machine and a renewed sense of hope, he ran out of his flat, determined that him and his –no, not his– _the_ angel would fix things together.  When it was over, there'd be time to...well...time to talk about things.

It was while he was running down the building stairs, taking them two at a time.  All of the sudden an angel shaped hole ripped open in his universe.

It felt like being stabbed straight through the chest and for a moment he thought he might discorporate.

It couldn’t be, they wouldn’t have.  Heaven.  Hell.  Whoever, they couldn’t have.

Not the only _good_ angel in existence.  Not the only good…well… _anything._

He had felt Aziraphale’s magnetic pull for six thousand years, it's what had drawn him to slither up that Eastern wall in the first place.  And now it was gone.  You might as well have cut his entire heart out.

The next fifteen minutes were a complete blur as he sped through central London in the Bentley, weaving in and out of traffic.  He was redialing Aziraphale’s number over and over and over again; so many times that he lost count.  Every time he instead got that smug operator’s voice, mocking him.

_“Please hang up and try your call again.”_

If he knew who the voice belonged to, he could’ve strangled them.  The Bentley’s radio, in tune with his mood as always, kept blaring out:

 _I've been with you such a long time_  
_You're my sunshine and I want you to know_  
_That my feelings are true_  
_I really love you_

“Stupid bloody car, I already knew that!” he shouted as he pounded his fist on the dashboard, willing his phone to redial again7.

_“Please hang up and try your call again.”_

He cursed, throwing his phone at the passenger window, flooring the gas pedal.

“This can’t be happening; this can’t be fucking happening!”

He saw the smoke from blocks away, billowing into the sky and mingling with the storm clouds.  The Bentley screeched to a halt just as the fire trucks pulled in.  Orange flames licked the walls of the bookshop, finding more than their share of kindling in all of the ancient paper. 

 _Hellfire._ It had to be; he didn't even bother to check.  The Powers that Be had found him out, and in turn had found out about Aziraphale, too.

He was vaguely aware of a fireman yelling at him, but that didn’t stop him.

He threw the doors open with a snap, then with the same shut them behind him.  His emotions were running on maximum.  The Aziraphale shaped hole in his universe was widening and threatening to swallow him whole.

“For God- For Satan- For somebody’s sake _where are you?!_ ” he screamed in vain.  It was then he got hit with the water from the fire truck.

His thoughts were a rambling mess as he came to from the blow.  Aziraphale had called him, he’d hung up on him, and now the angel – _his angel;_ Aziraphale was gone, what was the point in pretending– was gone.  Gone possibly forever.

Aziraphale had needed him, and he’d been too late.  For the first time in six millennia, he hadn’t been able to save him.  He felt sick when he realized what he’d told his angel was that he was busy and didn’t have time for him.  He didn’t want to dwell on what Aziraphale would’ve been thinking in his last moments.

The thought of Aziraphale ever thinking that Crowley didn’t care was a thought he couldn’t bear.

Hell coming after him made sense, but Hell wouldn't go after an angel -a fucking  _Principality_ at that- this close to the end.  Even Hell had standards.

But hellfire only came from...well...hell; so how would Heaven get a hold of it?

One of the blasted sides had gotten to his angel, and at this point Crowley didn’t care which.  Armageddon was closing in, he had no idea where the Antichrist was, and the one person in the whole blasted universe who mattered to him was gone.

“Bastards!  _All of you!_ ”

And he meant it, from the depths of his soul.  From what was left of it, anyway.  Aziraphale was gone, and now for the first time in a very long time, he felt himself crying.  Deep, jagged wails that caught in his dry throat and ripped through him like knives. His eyes stung with tears and ash, but this physical pain was no match for the pain in his heart.

After everything they had been through, now his angel was gone. Someone had taken the only thing that really mattered from Crowley, and now like never before, he would make sure there was Hell to pay.

A book caught his eye, one of the few still intact: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.  One last thing he could remember Aziraphale by, one of his beloved books.  And the memories.  Six thousand years of fucking memories.

“Aziraphale…angel…” his wailing sobs had dwindled into hiccups that he was sure wouldn't end any time soon.  All he could think of, all he could focus on, was every time those three words had failed him.  If Aziraphale showed up right now, he'd scream them at the top of his lungs over and over and over again until there could be no doubt in his angel's mind.

_…I gave it away…_

Crowley knew the Apocalypse was closing in, and there was nothing to stop it.

_…Oh, well, let me tempt you…_

Crowley knew that his best friend, the only person he’d ever loved, had found the key but was now too dead to do anything.

_…Well if you must know, it was the crepes…_

Crowley knew that, unequivocally, he loved the angel with all his heart and soul.  He’d known that for a while though.

_…The books! I forgot all the books..._

Crowley knew that it was either Heaven or Hell that had killed him, taken vengeance for…what exactly?  Daring to cross a bridge and be friends with an enemy?  Daring to speak out against a war he didn’t believe in?

_…You go to fast for me, Crowley…_

Crowley knew that he was going to get back in his Bentley, go to the nearest bar, and down as much single-malt as he could possibly hold.

_…Deep down, you really are a nice person…_

Lastly, Crowley knew when he finished with that whiskey, he was gonna take as many of them out, angel or demon, as he possibly could before he went down with the flames himself.

_…We’re not friends…_

He’d die taking his vengeance for what they did to his angel, cutting them down one by one.

_…I forgive you…_

And honestly, as he sped down Soho’s rainy streets, he couldn’t think of a better way to go.  At least he could go with style.

___________

1 - Aziraphale, in actuality, had about the same grasp on fighting with a sword at this point in time that a fish has at dancing the Gavotte, which hadn’t been invented yet.

2 - He did.

3- Upstairs management had, in fact, been having a time of it since the Great Schism and still hadn’t fully recovered.

4- As the Regents would tell it, the Virgin Mary herself came down from heaven and carried them towards the ground, proving the superiority of the Catholic church. If you _asked the_  Virgin Mary she’d remind you that she’s a saint, not an angel, and therefore cannot fly or, even at that, carry three grown men safely to the ground when she’s been dead for centuries.

5- He _had_ lifted a wine glass or eight.

6- Most attempts by Crowley to be some form of smooth around Aziraphale ended in him babbling about ducks for some reason.

7- The Bentley always had a Queen song for his mood, but sometimes it came on a little too strong. Crowley was glad that Aziraphale never noticed he kept the radio off any time they went to the Ritz.  The Bentley just couldn’t keep ‘Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy’ to itself.

**Author's Note:**

> Lindisfarne Raid - If you're familiar with the show Vikings you might remember this. This was the first recorded raid by the Vikings during the Viking Age and marked the beginning of it. The priests at the monastery believed it was punishment for a murder/suicide that occurred there.
> 
> Battle of Towton - Bloodiest battle of the War of the Roses, possibly the bloodiest battle on English soil. The two armies fought for hours in a blinding snowstorm and the battle ended in victory for the Yorks
> 
> Second Defenestration of Prague - One of the many events that led to the Thirty Years War. There are actual accounts of what Count von Thurn actually said when he addressed the people, and that's what I used for him in this fic. The two regents did in fact go on record saying they were rescued by the Virgin Mary. Bohemian "pamphleteers" popularized the story that the three men fell into a pile of dung. Aziraphale here is standing in for Filip Fabricius, who was secretary to the regents.


End file.
